Chapter Seven #3
“I like him doing anything as long as he’s not drinking.”
“How long has he been sober now?” I asked. Eunjin had mentioned her father’s alcoholism to me before, but only in passing. I had never heard her say it so bluntly before. I was treading carefully, prepared to pull back on the subject as soon as she became uncomfortable.
“Just short of ten years. Since I was twelve.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t erase the memories of those years when he wasn’t sober.”
“I’m sure.”
“There’s some stuff you just never forget,” she said. “At one point he pawned off my mom’s violin to buy more whiskey. And that idiot maybe got one-twentieth of what it was worth.”
“I didn’t know that. Did you ever get it back?”
“No. Not to mention the times when a police officer would bring him home in the morning with vomit all over his clothes. He liked to wander the streets. It was so fucking embarrassing. My only consolation is he was never violent. He wasn’t an angry alcoholic, more just a sad alcoholic.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.” We sat in silence for a little bit. Eunjin chewed on her chow mein and put down her fork. I wasn’t sure whether I should change the topic, so I waited for her to speak first.
“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just fired up because I just spent a week there, so it feels nice to get it all out in the open. Anyway, you see now why I could never invite someone like Leah over to visit, or even Alex. Even though they’ve brought it up a billion times.”
“I do, but also, I’m wondering if you’re giving your dad enough credit. He seems like he’s doing great now. Besides, Alex and Leah have family issues too. We all do. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Eunjin rolled her eyes. “That’s different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trauma aside, it’s just culturally different with my family,” she said. “All of you have parents with white-collar jobs. You have parents who’ve heard of the books we’re reading in class. Parents who can reminisce about their own time in college.”
“I mean, my mom’s an accountant, so I guess that’s white-collar. Socioeconomically, I am galaxies closer to you than to Alex or Leah. But I can promise you my mom hasn’t read the Oresteia.”
“Your dad might’ve. You told me that he wanted to study literature, but chose physics for the job stability.”
“Chinese literature. Besides, you’re seriously comparing your two loving parents with my father, who pretty much abandoned me to move to a different country?”
“Fine, but your mom works a white-collar job. My dad is a carpenter.”
“Carpenters make a decent living. Sure, my mom is an accountant, but in South Dakota. Not like a fancy accountant. A normal, middle-class accountant.”
“My point is that you don’t see a ton of families like mine in school.”
“Well, yeah. That’s true. But that should make you feel even prouder of yourself.”
“I guess. But the ones with families like mine are definitely not going into the arts. They’re going into investment banking or consulting or tech so that they can make their families’ lives better. They’re not squandering this opportunity to chase some far-off dream.”
“Why does it matter that they’re not going into the arts?” I asked. “They’re not as talented as you. They couldn’t go into the arts even if they wanted to. Besides, investment banking sounds miserable.”
Eunjin glanced at the line of people waiting to order their food. She turned to face me. “I wish I were more like you. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”
I burst out into laughter. “More like me? Are you kidding me?”
“You are ruthlessly practical. And I admire it.”
“You mean because I’m ruthlessly materialistic.”
“What’s wrong with wanting money? What’s wrong with wanting material things?
” she asked. Her face had flushed and I was taken aback by the sudden passion in her voice.
“Look around. If I decided to go down the same career path as you, I could literally change my family’s life.
I could help them finally fix the problems with their house.
I could help my dad pay off his credit card.
I could make their lives concretely better.
But I’m not. I have to follow my damn ‘passion’ or whatever.
And I feel guilty about it every day. Meanwhile, you don’t even have parents who need your financial help, but you are still set on achieving financial security for yourself. It’s admirable.”
“It’s admirable? No, it’s just risk averse,” I said. “You’re literally a violin prodigy, Eunjin. We’re different. I don’t have that going for me—that’s why I’m ruthlessly practical, as you would say. Idealism isn’t even a choice for me, because I have nothing to be idealistic about.”
She shook her head. “Be honest with me. Pretend you’re in my position, pretend that you’re just as talented at the violin.
If you came from a family that wasn’t financially stable, that you knew could benefit a lot from your help, and you had the choice between trying to become a concert violinist and using the Ivy League degree to help propel you into some stable, high-paying corporate job, which would you pick? ”
I paused for a second, as if I had to think about it. “I can’t answer that.”
“Yes, you can. You already know what your answer would be.”
“Eunjin. It’s different.”
“No, it’s not. Pretend you were in my exact situation. You wouldn’t be majoring in music.”
I shook my head. “This is a pointless question.”
“You know what you’d pick.”
“Fine. It’s true. I’d pick the stability.”
“Exactly, you’d pick the stability. And I admire that about you.”
—
I convinced the person sitting next to Eunjin on the plane to swap seats with me.
It wasn’t hard, considering he had the middle seat and I had been assigned the aisle.
She didn’t bring up our conversation at Panda Express.
Instead, we watched a random superhero movie on our laptops, pressing start at the same time so it’d be like we were seeing it together.
I stopped myself from checking Laura’s social media until I was back in my dorm room.
I saw that she had arrived in the city a couple of days before me and had just posted photos of a meal she had at Don Angie.
I looked up Don Angie. It was an Italian restaurant in the West Village.
The dishes looked both beautiful and scrumptious, the lasagna elegantly spiraled into flowery shapes of carbohydrate-dense deliciousness.
So Laura did eat pasta, but only when it was seventy dollars.
I decided that I would also go to Don Angie.
I had been deprived of many things that Laura had access to: generational wealth, superior genetics, an admission to Harvard Law.
But a meal at a nice restaurant—was that really too much to ask for?
I decided that I would treat myself to Don Angie.
I would simply pick up a few extra shifts at my work-study job.
But then I remembered: David. He was still texting me every few days or so; I could tell that he was trying to gauge my interest, trying to see if I wanted to hang out again.
I told myself it was healthy to date; if nothing else, it’d provide me with some more stories I could tell to my friends.
I asked if he wanted to get dinner. He replied right away with a few suggestions, and I pretended to brainstorm for a moment, throwing out a few mediocre options before finally texting, wait, actually, have you heard of Don Angie? I’ve been meaning to try it.
Yes! he responded. Funny enough, that’s been on my list for a while too. It’s super hard to get a reservation, but let me check with my Amex concierge.
So the next day, there we were at Don Angie, the scenery familiar to me from Laura’s Instagram stories, except the space seemed darker and more crowded in real life.
I pretended like I was seeing the menu for the first time even though I had looked it up online beforehand to match the dishes on the menu to the pictures Laura had posted.
“Hmm, I’m really feeling the tuna crudo tonight…” I said.
“Oh, I actually don’t eat raw fish.”
“Do you mind if I get it anyway? Their portion sizes are small so I could probably just finish it myself.” I knew I was being rude, but I also knew that he wouldn’t say no.
When the appetizers arrived, I took small bites, chewing slowly as though trying to extract the maximum flavor from every morsel.
David was already on his second mojito. It was easy to get him to talk so that I wouldn’t have to.
I tuned in every thirty seconds or so to pick up a tidbit of information about which I could formulate a question.
In the meantime, I imagined Laura tasting the same food, the cold tuna sliding down her throat, her tongue picking out a stray piece from behind a molar, the garlic staying on her breath until it was washed out by a generous sip of sauvignon blanc.
But only if she really sloshed around the sauv blanc.
Maybe she didn’t. Maybe that was just me.
After all, it was easy to do the math. I was three sips in.
The glass was twenty dollars and I was about one-fifth of the way through.
Each sip was the equivalent of $1.33. I pictured a dollar bill, a quarter, a nickel, and three pennies sliding down my throat.
The dollar bill would be easiest to swallow, the saliva breaking it down until it was the texture of papier-maché.
The coins would feel metallic and cold against my tongue, and when I tried to swallow, they’d get stuck somewhere in my esophagus.
The feeling was so vivid that I needed two giant gulps of wine to feel like I could breathe again.